When golden oil doth strike the naked eye

Not often does it bring much more than pain.

But if this golden oil is what you cry

it must do naught but make me taste the rain

if ever it had splashed upon my face

or even touched my skin with breath of fire

I would but cry and without ounce of grace

let feelings in a tumult of desire

spill down my cheeks, my neck, my collarbones

until they finally washed me all away.

And so would all my pains, my hates, my loans

and what was pure, remained, would blithely say,

"If when I die, I still picture you well

my buoyancy could raise me up from hell."